


Fire and Gold

by Antiquated



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Implied Death, Introspection, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17648996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiquated/pseuds/Antiquated
Summary: Some vague-ish musings, aimed in the Warrior of Light's general direction after the Big Draggie battle.





	Fire and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This was written waaaay back in the first week of Stormblood release, but I never got brave enough to post it anywhere. Here's me being brave. xD;

She cried quite often.

 

It was easily her most vexing trait.

When elated, she cried. When infuriated, she cried. When frustrated, confused, or emotionally compromised in any capacity, _she cried_. It was as if she were a veritable fount of tempestuous sensation, far beyond her ability to control, whose waters ran deep and far reaching, tapping into any and _every_ hidden source of roiling momentum, until truly, there was no floodgate anywhere that might have contained the full force.

Maddening to think then, that _this_ was the Eikon Slayer, in the flesh. This (comparatively) unimposing slip of a woman, who wore every emotion that passed through those big doe eyes of hers plain as the savages bore their war paint. Had he not been bested by her, he'd never have dreamed such a thing possible. How could _she_ have done this? Of every champion who called this useless star home...

_How could it have been her?_

Even now, she was crying, the tears glittering in the last rays of the final setting of any sun he might ever again see, making them shimmer like jewels. _Too soft,_ he'd often thought of her. But in that moment, with her hands clutching at his neck, desperate to put a halt to the inevitable, as though she would stop the very march of time itself on his account, reaching for a brand of magic that could not hope to touch the level of damage he'd taken, he curiously found her...

_Less irritating_ , than usual; less like an itch creeping below the surface of skin, too awkward an angle to reach and too grating to ignore, whatever his best efforts. No, the 'Her' of this moment somehow _did not_ inspire any of the typical distasteful sensations he oft found himself restlessly endeavoring to purge.

Then again, bleeding to death had a funny way of mellowing one, he supposed.

There was an odd brand of comfort in her attempts to save him, despite the futility of her actions. And perhaps, just perhaps, he took some, small, dark pleasure in the fact that she, in the very least, would remember him in the height of his glory, should this leap into the unknown he was taking serve to obliterate, rather than substantiate. She would remember him as no one else had ever seen him. Great and terrible and resplendent and horrifying – all of it.

_She would remember him as he wished to be remembered._

Sound, curiously, fled him before his vision had finally begun to swim and tunnel. He'd always thought it would have been the other way around, but no. And it was warm, there in that final slip. Not cold at all. Warm. Thick. Lulling.

And then?

_Then, there was nothing at all._

 


End file.
